Twist

by Roni Teson

  “Not in front of my mom. Not yet,” Amilee said.

  I was about to disconnect when he answered. “Now you look at your phone,” he said. “What can I do for you, Beatrice?”

  In one breath I explained Amilee’s mom’s new job and the word that was written in the corner of the card. “Please tell me if you know anything about this.”

  He sighed so loud the phone crackled. “Why don’t you come by here and I will clarify some things.”

  We found his hotel within five minutes, and he was waiting in the lobby.

  “Bea, it’s really important you forget about that card during your meeting tomorrow with the FBI.” He was walking us to a corner of the lobby, where there were a few chairs. “If you had shown up earlier today, the FBI would be done. I’d be able to tell you everything. But there are things they cannot know. I don’t want to put you in the position of saying things you shouldn’t. At least not before tomorrow.”

  Amilee hiccupped. “Sorry,” she said. “I do that when I get nervous. So is the FBI going to interrogate Bea again?”

  “Not exactly.” He looked at me. “I have your permission to talk freely?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Your father is making a deal with the FBI. Part of this deal is that you will not have to testify.”

  “That’s good news,” Amilee said.

  “You will have to meet with your father, though. They agreed to set up a meeting,” he murmured. “It’s the only way he’ll cooperate with the FBI.”

  “What if I don’t want to see him?”

  “They’ll make sure you do,” Mr. Campbell said.

  “What does that mean?” Amilee said and hiccupped again.

  “Better to just agree,” he said.

  “Why is my mother being brought into this?” Amilee handed him the card.

  He looked down at the card and shook his head.

  “Why not tell us now,” I said. “Are they going to torture me?”

  He chuckled. “Let’s hope not.”

  Amilee: “Are you (hic) trying (hic) to be (hic) funny?”

  “Look, Jessica Gray is not in danger.” He looked at me. “You will be fine, too. If you just answer their questions. And I’ll be with you. And then we leave.” He stood up and added. “I know this is hard to believe, but if you do as I say the outcome will be good.”

  He walked us to the door and said, “Are you set for tomorrow?”

  “I guess.” I hated this whole Quasimodo operation. “Am I ever going to be able to just be a sixteen-year-old?”

  Mr. Campbell shrugged. “Is anyone?”

  “Well, yes,” I said. “Amilee is, sort of.”

  She scowled at me and then let out a really loud hiccup. “This is crazy,” she said.

  “I know . . . What does the FBI want to ask me?”

  “Same old stuff. Good night, girls.”

  Outside of the hotel Amilee jiggled her keys and said, “I can’t believe my friend is Ms. Mission Impossible.” She jumped around puddles across the parking lot. “I’m just not as happy as I was earlier this evening.” She pointed her key at the car and unlocked the doors. “Do you want to follow through with what he’s asking?”

  “What else can I do?”

  Her bottom lip jetted out. “I suppose nothing else. Hey, does he remind you of Bruce Willis, the actor?”

  “Exactly what I thought when I first saw him.”

  We didn’t talk at all during the ride home. When we got there, I said, “I know your mom sounds really into this new job, but I don’t think she should go back.”

  “I know, we have until Tuesday before she goes back so let’s wait,” Amilee said.

  And in that moment I realized I’d have to move back to Aunt Charlotte’s house because my father’s insane life was now affecting people besides me. I loved him and I hated him all in the same instant.

  I’d wait to tell Amilee about my decision, just as she was waiting to tell her mom.

  Chapter 30

  I didn’t want the doorbell to wake Mrs. Gray, so at 7:55 a.m. I sat on the porch anticipating Mr.’s arrival.

  I’d tried to cancel our dates that evening because it was obvious that being around me in any capacity was dangerous. I had concerns for Grant, and besides, why would I want to get involved now? I was leaving. But Amilee wouldn’t let me cancel. She kept saying, “Life back to normal.” Which was also Aunt Charlotte’s favorite line, so I’m sure they talked. And I didn’t want to argue with Amilee. Her swinging mood tree was almost as bad as mine.

  Mr. Campbell showed up at eight. He stepped out of the cab and held the door open for me. The cab driver didn’t move a muscle, which for some reason made me very suspicious, so I leaned in and said to him, “Hello.”

  He turned his head and spoke with a thick accent. “Good morning,” he said, confirming that he was not my father.

  I sat back.

  “You must have some idea about what they are going to ask me? How could they possibly have another question for me?” I said.

  Mr. Campbell had settled himself in the backseat with a folder on his lap. He carefully placed it in the outer pocket of his briefcase, and then he narrowed his eyes. “You brought your license?”

  “Yes.”

  “Once your identification is verified, you’ll be searched. The book bag, your phone, any loose items will stay outside. You’ll be led into a room that you might think is private. It is not.” He brushed a piece of lint off of his immaculate suit. “As long as you are on their premises, know that they will be watching everything you say and do.”

  I almost responded that they hadn’t done that last time, but Mr. Campbell put his index finger up as if to say, one second and kept talking in his smooth, composed way. “After you spend time with your father, the agents will debrief you, but don’t let them start until I am in the room. Demand that your lawyer be present if they insist on continuing.”

  “You didn’t tell me I’m seeing my father today!”

  “Does it matter? You don’t want to testify, right?”

  I felt the vein on my forehead pop out as I held back a scream. “I need to know the truth, not this contrived, manipulated crap!”

  He nodded toward the cab driver and in a low tone said, “After your visit, I promise. It’s not the time or place right now.”

  We were dropped off at the side entrance to the FBI field office, an older high rise building on Third Street in downtown Seattle. Apparently, Mr. Campbell was headed home after this meeting because the cab driver lifted his suitcase out of the trunk and left it on the sidewalk.

  When we went inside, the security guard looked at the luggage and frowned.

  “Sorry, guys, I have an early flight,” Mr. Campbell said.

  It looked like airport-level security in the building anyway, so what did they care? I placed my book bag in the bin, pulled my phone out of my pocket, and they waved me through the X-ray machine. Within seconds, I was on the other side, waiting for my attorney.

  After searching every crevice of his suitcase, they let Mr. Campbell join me in the lobby. He used a wall phone to announce our arrival, and then we waited.

  Agent Carter came down to collect us. “Hello Beatrice,” she said, as if we were old friends. “How are you?”

  For a moment I actually thought her smile was genuine. “Fine,” I said.

  Mr. Campbell said, “Sherri,” in such a familiar manner I had to shake off my paranoia.

  Just how well did they know each other?

  “Keep your enemies closer,” he whispered in my ear, as if he could read my mind. But it made me feel a little better, considering my situation, even though there had to be something wrong with an attorney who wasn’t exactly forthcoming with his client.

  “Hopefully, we can close everything today,” Agent Carter said. “No more trial pending, nothing else to worry about. Well, I mean . . . you can get back to being sixteen.”

  “I don’t think that’s ever going to happe
n,” I said, remembering her part in sharing my most intimate moment with my father, and whoever else she showed. I still couldn’t believe the lengths the FBI went to just to find my dad.

  We took an elevator up several floors and headed down a long corridor. The wheels on Mr. Campbell’s suitcase made an awful squealing noise, setting my nerves even more on edge.

  “What time is your flight?” Agent Carter said.

  “This afternoon,” he said.

  She stopped in front of an open office and pointed at a table inside. “Put your stuff down there.” I dropped my book bag, and Mr. Campbell put his briefcase and suitcase next to the table. He pulled out that folder and said, “Some pictures for your father.”

  I tucked the folder under my arm.

  Campbell said to Agent Carter, “No handcuffs, and they can make contact.”

  “Yes. But first I need to complete a thorough search of Beatrice.” We went through another door. The room was nearly empty—one folding chair, no windows. “You’re going to have to strip down,” Agent carter said.

  “Seriously? I didn’t even know I was seeing him today until a few minutes ago.” I slammed the folder down on the chair and tossed my jacket on top of it.

  She lifted my jacket and went through the pockets, then hung it on the chair and carefully examined the folder. “Have you been back to California?” she said, as if we were best friends strolling through the mall.

  “Nope.”

  For each piece of my clothing, she searched the seams and pockets. I resisted the urge to cover my skin, but I was furious that I was being put through this unnecessary embarrassment, especially at the hands of Agent Carter!

  As I got dressed, she said, “Have you talked to Lucas Drake?”

  “Nope.”

  “It’s a shame they never caught the person who beat him.” Agent Carter’s voice dropped even lower. “He has had to relearn how to walk and talk and doesn’t even remember who he is. My heart goes out to his family.”

  My fingers trembled as I fumbled with the buttons on my shirt. I tried not to think about Luke and what might have happened to him because of me.

  When I was done dressing, I sat down in the chair and folded my hands on top of the folder. I tried to show how calm I was but my insides felt like a tsunami.

  “Have you adjusted to being home?”

  “Can we just get this over with?” I said. “I don’t want to chat.”

  Agent Carter frowned. “I . . . feel like I know you, that’s all. I hope you get a break.”

  Then I did the most teenager thing I could think of—I rolled my eyes, because I didn’t believe anything that woman said.

  “Let’s go,” she said, reaching for my arm.

  “I’m a big girl, I can walk on my own. I’m not in custody, remember?”

  Mr. Campbell was standing outside the room. “Agent Carter, I expect to be a part of the debriefing, as we agreed,” he said as we walked past him. When she didn’t answer, he said, “Sherri?”

  “Yes,” she said in a dismissive tone. “I heard you the first time.”

  Then she opened a door to another room and I stumbled when I saw my dad, partly because it was unexpected—I thought I’d be waiting some more—but also because of the way he looked. His eyes were sunken even more than before, like he hadn’t slept in days. But there was something about his smile that made me melt. Even though I was kind of mad at him, I ran to him and jumped into his arms. He’d gotten skinny.

  “Are you sick?” I asked.

  He shook his head, and then he said to Agent Carter, “Thank you.”

  She closed her eyes and bowed.

  When she pulled the door shut behind her, I said, “Do you know her?”

  He nodded. “I do now.”

  Why were these men treating this woman, my nemesis, with such . . . niceness! And the way she had responded to both of them was also bothersome. Way too kind. Or was I just going crazy?

  I dismissed all thoughts about her. “Are they feeding you, Dad?”

  He looked at me like I was nuts.

  “Well, you’re skin and bones,” I said, and realized I sounded like my mother.

  He chuckled and said, “I forget to eat sometimes. I’ve been so focused in the lab.”

  “Lab? I thought you were in jail.”

  “Bea.” He sat down next to me and placed a folder on the table. “I’m developing a form of biochemical warfare for the government.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Because of my past efforts, developing a drug for CJD—I will save the NSA years of laboratory time on a slightly different form of the same drug,” he said.

  “Are you being held against your will?”

  “I can’t walk out the door, if that is what you are asking,” he said. “But I’ve made a deal that includes a new identity and reestablishment in another part of the country.”

  “Like witness protection?” I asked.

  “Yes, similar,” he said.

  “For all of us?” I asked. “Aunt Charlotte and Uncle George?”

  “Let’s talk about that,” he said.

  “Are we in a private room? Mr. Campbell said—”

  Dad put his hand on my arm and slid his folder over to me.

  “He’s a good attorney. I’m glad Charlotte found him.” He tapped the file. “I’ve been writing in this journal at night to unwind and I wanted to show you some of these things.”

  I opened the folder and saw his handwriting scrawled across several pages. It was almost impossible to read. I laughed and said, “You write like a doctor.”

  “It’s what they teach you in medical school.” His voice was light but his actions were swift and purposeful. He pulled open the file that I brought, and in between two photos was a clear sheet that he placed over his writing. “I just let the words flow at night when I can’t sleep. I thought you’d want to know more about what’s going on in my head and how I felt about your mother.”

  I sat there with my jaw practically on the floor. Both he and Mr. Campbell had included me in some trickery with the FBI and that just plain scared me.

  Dad spoke about nothing pertinent to the case and prompted me to say yes every so often when he asked a question like, “Are you listening?” and “Makes sense, right?” And I complied.

  When he put the plastic sheet over his writing, certain words became highlighted—for my eyes only, apparently. I immediately scanned the room and noticed there were no cameras—or none visible.

  “I want you to think about starting a new life with me,” he said, and gestured toward the document. “And the possibility of leaving everything else behind.”

  “Everything?” I said. But my mind was busy reading his encrypted message.

  The writing was clear and concise, not the scribble I had looked at moments before. He’d written: We are going to fake a fight. When you leave here it’s important that you will be crying and distraught. My writings will be transferred to your folder and your pictures will be transferred to mine.

  I have a vial that you will need to leave with.

  Jessica Gray will soon know what to do with this vial.

  I knew it! I knew he had something to do with that supposed job. “I’m not starting fresh with you! I’m so pissed right now.” I pointed at Mrs. Gray’s name on that paper and mouthed, why her? “You just don’t give up, do you!?”

  He waved his fingers, a gesture for me to keep reading.

  I looked down and read the next line repeatedly because I could not believe my eyes.

  Your mother is alive . . .

  Your mother is alive . . .

  Your mother is alive and she will need this medicine to stay that way.

  “Bullshit,” I said with less vigor and a lot of confusion. I went to her funeral. I cried for her. I balled my eyes out and every day since then I’d wished that I could see her again. And suddenly, I find out she’s still alive.

  He gestured toward the paper and said, “I’m sorry you
feel that way.”

  She’s safe, but very ill. Not able to function at all.

  “Why? What can these people possibly want from you that they keep you locked up? It doesn’t make sense!” I yelled and tears streamed down my face.

  I needed this lab and resources to finish the drug—for your mother.

  “My security clearance doesn’t allow me to share everything,” he said.

  I replied through my sobs, “You don’t make sense.” I was perplexed, but I tried to keep following his lead.

  “Yes, well, I can only share so much and sometimes that’s too much,” he said.

  You will see your mother shortly. She needs you to do this.

  He pulled a small vial from the inside of his cheek.

  My eyes bugged out when I saw it. “I’m not into any of this!”

  He made a gesture with his arms—pleading with his entire body.

  I had to fake your mother’s death so that I could finish developing the drug. It is one and the same for the government and for your mother.

  “This is so stupid. Why would anybody keep all of this to themselves!” My head was about to explode. “Who are you really? I don’t believe you just do research. This is not normal behavior!” I screamed at him.

  He grabbed my right arm and shoved the vial up my sleeve.

  “I’m sorry, sometimes things aren’t what they seem.” Then quickly he leaned in real close and whispered, “Yell at me, slap me—now.”

  I slapped him lightly.

  “You ungrateful brat!” he yelled and then whispered, “again, harder. Make some noise.”

  I did it again, with a full swing and said, “I can’t believe a flipping word you say!”

  “Carter!” he yelled. “Take her away!” He shoved the folder under my arm and whispered. “Go!”

  “What are you doing?” I shouted in his face. “Get away from me. You’re not my father. He’d never treat me this way!”

  The second Agent Carter opened the door Dad grabbed me around the neck. She tried to pull him off of me. I was about to pass out. Then I felt someone behind me and realized it was Mr. Campbell—with his fingers up my sleeve. He’d pulled the vial out! “I’ve got her,” he said. At that moment my father released me and two men rushed in, grabbed my dad, and slammed him against the wall.